Thorns Along the Way
by Wilusa
Summary: An Original DS novella. In 1960, a dream comes true for Quentin...but it soon turns into a nightmare.
1. Chapter 1

  
DISCLAIMER: _Dark Shadows_ and its canon characters are the property of Dan Curtis Productions; no copyright infringement is intended.  
  
_Author's Note: When I wrote this some years ago, it wasn't intended as an AU. I did have a plan for getting the characters to roughly where they should be by the late Sixties; that may or may not be written someday._  
  
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**_. _**  
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_"The way you walk is thorny,  
through no fault of your own..."  
  
The Wolf Man_  
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"Can't you get us out of this, somehow?"  
  
Even as he spoke, Quentin realized it was pointless. Traffic on all sides had ground to a halt--as usual in New York, for no discernible reason. Horns were blaring, drivers cursing each other in a dozen tongues.  
  
The taxi meter clicked at indecently frequent intervals, as his fare continued to mount.  
  
He settled back and tried to relax. He was tempted to get out and walk, but that would undoubtedly take longer. And he might, after all, be early. He had no idea what time he was expected.  
  
Compulsively, he looked at the letter again. As though it might have changed in the last five minutes... The envelope, typed, with a New York postmark. Addressed to "Frederic Thorn"--not in care of his publisher, but at his closely guarded home address. And inside, the briefest of typewritten notes.  
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_Dear Quentin,  
  
Please meet me at the Enfield Hotel the night of November 25th._  
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That was all. No signature.  
  
He refolded the note with trembling fingers. Took out his wallet, and allowed himself another look at the small photo he had clipped from a newspaper three months ago. A photo of a novice actress named Olivia Corey.  
  
Betty had asked why he was so interested in a little-known actress. He had muttered some evasion. And their relationship had never been quite the same.  
  
His mind raced back to the last night he had spent with Amanda, in the Enfield Hotel. _The night of November 25th, 1897. Sixty-three years ago._ He had left her the following morning. Saying he wanted her to lead a normal life, marry and have children with a normal man who would grow old as she would. As he would not.  
  
The photo in his hand seemed proof she had not grown old. She, like him, had been a lonely, rootless misfit throughout those long years. The note had to be from Amanda! Who else would know the significance of that hotel, that date?  
  
He had made a clean break with Betty, without explaining himself, before this trip to New York. Betty...the sweet-faced brunette who had been his live-in lover, signing herself "Betty Thorn," for nigh on two years. It had been, in some ways, the best relationship of his life. In no small part because he had sensed all along that Betty, a woman in her mid-thirties, was no more in love than he was. The knowledge that neither of them would be shattered by their eventual breakup had enabled them to relax, become friends as well as sexual partners. He had never told her the truth about himself, but only because, without proof, she would--understandably--have questioned his sanity. He would miss Betty...  
  
It made sense that Amanda had not found him until now. Quentin had spent the better part of a half-century abroad--expecting the evil Count Petofi, bent on stealing his virile young body, to look for him in the United States. But over the last five years, he had gradually let down his guard.  
  
He knew now that in 1897, Petofi had exchanged his own aged body for the "resurrected" body of Garth Blackwood. The Blackwood body was less desirable than Quentin's: twenty years older in appearance, plain of feature, and missing a leg. But it was, like Quentin's body, unchanging and virtually indestructible.  
  
Petofi, still in possession of all his powers, had survived in that body until 1955. Then he had met an ironic fate. He had mistaken a grandson of Quentin's for Quentin himself, knocked him unconscious, and performed a mind-switch. Hours later, he had been caught by surprise when he _transformed into a werewolf!_ A silver bullet had claimed his life that very night. As for his "victim," Gavin Collins, he was--at last word--alive and well in the Garth Blackwood body, blessedly free of the werewolf curse.  
  
Quentin had returned to his native land after Petofi's death. For ten years before that, he had been writing hard-boiled detective thrillers under the pen name "Rick Thorn." Now, as "Frederic Thorn," he also felt safe writing novels of the occult, featuring werewolves and vampires. Some of the plots were thinly disguised accounts of his own life... Yes, it made sense that Amanda had recognized the author as Quentin Collins.  
  
The taxi was moving again--bumping along, with frequent jolting halts, through ever-older sections of the city. Picture-book snowflakes swirled around it, melting as they hit the pavement. Quentin kept his wallet in his hand.  
  
Why, in three months' time, had he not sought out Olivia Corey? That was a hard question. Loyalty to Betty had something to do with it. But there had to be more. Fear that "Olivia" would turn out to be not Amanda but a descendant, the female equivalent of Gavin Collins? Or...fear that she _was_ Amanda, and would have no love to offer him, only resentment and reproach?  
  
Knowing as he did that Amanda had been _created_ by that strangely gifted artist, Charles Delaware Tate, he should have realized there was a possibility she would never age. No, not "should have"--he had realized. A case could be made that if he had really loved her, he would have stayed with her until they learned the answer to that question. If Amanda--like him--was impervious to injury, they probably would have found out, somehow, within a year or two.  
  
The falling snow was barely visible now, in these darker streets...  
  
He understood himself better, far better, than he had in 1897. Saw clearly why he had left Amanda, why he had found _excuses_ to leave her. He had failed, and hurt, everyone who had ever loved him. Killed his wife Jenny in a moment of panic. Driven Beth, who dreamed of being his next wife, to the verge of suicide--and finally, foolishly, caused her accidental fall to her death from Widow's Hill. Even young Jamison, the "nephew" who was really his son...Jamison had been wrong in condemning him for jilting Beth in favor of the immortal witch Angelique. He had done that to save the boy's life. But he would always live with the guilty knowledge that he had been prepared to jilt Beth anyway, for Amanda. So he would have disillusioned Jamison in any case.  
  
After all that, he had been convinced--subconsciously, at the time--of his own inadequacy. He had fled Amanda to avoid hurting her. And ever afterward, he had used his "deathless love" for her as an excuse to avoid commitment to anyone else.  
  
But if he had doomed Amanda to the same loneliness as himself, he _had_ hurt her. More and more, he was coming to see that fleeing responsibility was no answer.  
  
He gazed out, morosely, at the deserted streets. _Deserted?_ Yes, even the traffic had been left behind. Blocks slipped by without neon lights, without horns or sirens or squealing brakes. Blocks of buildings not visibly changed since the turn of the century.  
  
Quentin shivered. He had an eerie feeling the taxi was taking him back in time, and when he reached his destination, he would find himself in 1897...  
  
Would he be the same Quentin Collins who had deserted Amanda once before? If he were called upon to prove his love, would he turn tail and run?  
  
The driver applied the brake, bringing the taxi to a smooth stop at the curb. "Enfield Hotel."  
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Quentin paid his fare and alighted. Took a sheepish look around, to reassure himself he was still in 1960.  
  
He was, of course. Streetlights and traffic lights were modern. A vendor was hawking a newspaper, with a front page devoted entirely to the Kennedys. The face of Richard Nixon looked on, forlornly, from a tattered campaign poster on a nearby wall.  
  
And yet, as Quentin entered the old-fashioned hotel, his eagerness was tempered by the deepest sense of foreboding he had known since Petofi's death.  
  
The lobby was just as he remembered it. All plush, mahogany, and gilt, with oversized chandeliers that tinkled in the draught created by his opening the door. No hotel guests were in sight.  
  
He hesitated. Should he wait here, or register and go to a room? And if he registered, should he give his real name, or "Frederic Thorn"?  
  
His dilemma was resolved when the elderly registration clerk looked up, and smiled at him through his gold-rimmed spectacles. "Mr. Collins?"  
  
"Uh--yes."  
  
The clerk beamed. "The party you're meeting gave me your description. Everything's taken care of, sir. I have your room key for you. I understand you've been here before, and you know how to find the room?"  
  
Quentin looked at the key the man pressed into his hand. Number 23. _The same room._  
  
"Yes. I know how to find the room."  
  
He climbed the thickly carpeted stairs to the second floor, wondering if he was setting his feet exactly where he had before. Walked down a short corridor, and paused at the closed door of Number 23.  
  
He knocked gently.  
  
No answer.  
  
He unlocked the door and went in.  
  
Was it his imagination, or were even the furnishings unchanged? With Amanda nowhere in sight, he shook the few snowflakes from his coat and laid it on a chair.  
  
Behind him, he heard the door open.  
  
"Glad you're here, Quentin. It's good to see you again."  
  
He gasped and spun around.  
  
A handsome, nattily-dressed young man was standing in the doorway, an enigmatic smile on his face.  
  
The man was Charles Delaware Tate.  
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Tate strolled into the room. The stunned Quentin belatedly registered that he was carrying a bottle of champagne--and two glasses. He set them down and closed the door behind him.  
  
Quentin's mind was reeling. _The note wasn't from Amanda wasn't from Amanda **wasn't from Amanda!** What have I walked into? How did I let myself become so careless? If I get out of this alive..._  
  
He fought for control. _Calm down. I've learned a valuable lesson. Whatever Tate wants, he can't hurt me. Or, presumably, vice versa.  
  
_Tate smiled benignly. "Surprised by my appearance?"  
  
"By your appearance _here_, yes," Quentin grated. "I'm not surprised that you still look about thirty. I've always taken for granted that if you could do it for me, you could do it for yourself."  
  
"Smart man." A hint of a sneer, quickly suppressed. "My apologies for...misleading you. I didn't think you'd agree to meet with me if I approached you openly. But you'll notice I didn't actually lie."  
  
"That was good of you." Quentin's voice dripped sarcasm. "You must have been a veritable Peeping Tom back in 1897."  
  
Tate colored. "I'm not proud of it. I confess I did spy on you and Amanda, till you split up. You weren't hard to find. Amanda had traveled to New York quite openly, returned to the same hotel where I knew she had stayed before. And it only required a little sleuthing in the lobby to learn the room number." He looked away. His lip twitched, and his voice shook slightly. "I...I was standing below your window the entire night of November 25th. Wishing myself in your place...  
  
"But that was a long time ago." Brisk and cheery again. "Back when we really were very, very young. Once again, I apologize for using a trick to bring you here. I hope you didn't prematurely dump your current girlfriend!"  
  
Quentin's expression must have given him away, for Tate's eyes widened. "Oh, my. You _did_, didn't you? I'm truly sorry, Quentin. But the surprise I have for you will more than make up for it."  
  
"I doubt that." Quentin felt profoundly violated--now, doubly so. Part of him wanted to scream, rage, hurl himself at Tate and pummel him into unconsciousness. But if he did that, he would forfeit his last scrap of dignity.  
  
Instead, he picked up his coat. "I'm getting out of here."  
  
"No, please don't go!" Tate grabbed his arm. "Won't you at least listen to what I have to say?"  
  
He wavered, then put the coat down again. "All right, but make it quick." If he didn't find out what his old rival wanted, after all this, it would probably nag at him later.  
  
Tate's eyes flashed triumph. "I invited you here to propose a business transaction. I'm prepared to sell...something I think you'll be very eager to acquire." Drawing it out, savoring the moment.  
  
"I have your portrait, Quentin. _The_ portrait."  
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The shock took Quentin's breath away.  
  
He had given up on finding the portrait. Put it--almost--out of his mind. And never in his wildest imaginings had he dared to hope that Tate, if he had it, would sell it to him.  
  
The words that sprang to his lips were an accusation. "So it _was_ you who stole it!"  
  
"Yes," Tate said genially. "I stole it from Collinwood, and salvaged it after the fire in my studio. Or rather"--he snickered--"it was actually Count Petofi who carried it out of the burning building! He didn't see me watching from across the street. He laid it on the ground and went back in. Naturally, I seized my chance to get away with the portrait."  
  
"Naturally." Quentin's brow furrowed as he wondered, momentarily, what else in that studio could have been so important to Petofi.  
  
Then the answer hit him, the only possible answer. For some reason, Garth Blackwood had been inside--doubtless already unconscious. Petofi had dragged him out, performed the mind-switch. And probably, thrown his original body back into the fire.  
  
He shuddered. Knowing _how_ Petofi had acquired Garth Blackwood's body made it seem, suddenly, as vividly real as though it had happened yesterday.  
  
"But I haven't had it ever since," Tate went on. "While I was still debating what to do with it, someone else stole it from me! I only found it six months ago, at an auction. I had painted a landscape over the portrait, so it didn't appear to be anything unusual."  
  
He chuckled. "You may be interested in learning who had it. Apparently, it was lying around Collinwood for sixty years!"  
  
_"Collinwood?"_ Quentin had received so many shocks in the last ten minutes that the whole evening was beginning to seem surreal.  
  
Tate nodded. "With the portrait concealed under a landscape, only someone with second sight could have recognized it for what it was..."  
  
"Charity Trask," Quentin breathed.  
  
"That's my guess. Your sister probably let Charity stay on at Collinwood for years. I suppose she never dared tell anyone what the painting really was, and it became a white elephant after her death. The present head of the family finally got rid of it."  
  
Quentin sank into a chair, overwhelmed. Charity--yet another woman who loved him--had taken what must have been enormous risks to steal that painting. For his sake. Only to have it returned, after her death, to the very man from whom she had stolen it.  
  
He glowered at Tate. "You admit you stole it, after Count Petofi had given it to me. And now you want me to _buy_ it?"  
  
"Come now, Quentin." Tate's smile showed his teeth. "You must know I was never paid for that portrait. You didn't believe the lie about your grandmother having commissioned it, did you? Petofi had me paint it, but I wasn't paid a cent. And I had to buy and pay for it at that auction last spring.  
  
"Besides, I happen to know you spent a small fortune on an unsuccessful portrait hunt a few years back. I only want what you were offering then, as a no-questions-asked finder's fee. Ten thousand dollars."  
  
Quentin swore under his breath. That portrait hunt had exhausted his life savings. He earned a decent living from his novels, but that was all. He had never had a bestseller, never wanted the publicity that would follow that kind of success. He could raise ten thousand dollars, but it would leave him scrambling to meet everyday expenses.  
  
And Tate, damn him, undoubtedly knew it.  
  
Still...he had to acknowledge privately that if his onetime enemy was on the up-and-up, it _was_ a good deal. The security he would know with the portrait in his possession was worth any amount of money. And Tate had set the price within his reach, if only barely.  
  
"I'll have to see what I'm buying," he said cautiously. "I want you to remove the upper layer, the landscape."  
  
"I already have."  
  
"And I'll have to be convinced it's _my_ portrait." He frowned. "I'm ninety years old. Is the portrait still recognizable? I'm sure you've lined your pockets by painting dozens of these things over the years, for wealthy people who wanted eternal youth."  
  
"Indeed I have." Tate smirked. "But you're the only one who's ever been careless enough to let his portrait be stolen.  
  
"Don't worry, Quentin. It's recognizable."  
  
"All right then." He got to his feet. "Where is it? Do you have it in another room here? In your car?"  
  
"Not so fast. I don't have it with me. Can you blame me for wanting to see the color of your money first? I want that ten thousand in cash, _tonight_."  
  
_"What?"_ Quentin's pent-up rage finally exploded. "Tate, I don't carry sums like that with me!"  
  
"No, of course you don't." Tate was clearly enjoying himself. "But Frederic Thorn has an account, with just enough in it, in a New York bank. And that bank has a branch that's open late Friday nights. Tonight is Friday, in case you hadn't noticed. I assume you do carry identification?"  
  
Quentin's jaw dropped. "How...how do you know so much about me?"  
  
"Those special portraits I've painted, remember? My...unique talent...has brought me wealth _and_ influence, Quentin. Influence extending into areas you couldn't possibly imagine.  
  
"Don't worry...the portrait is in New York. I have a studio here. Once you withdraw the money, I'll take you there and show you the portrait. And as soon as the cash is locked in my safe, I'll hand it over."  
  
"All right." Still seething, he knew he had no choice.  
  
"Good. Let's seal our agreement with a drink."  
  
Ignoring his guest's stony silence, Tate uncorked the champagne and filled both glasses. His face was wreathed in smiles as he extended one to Quentin--who grudgingly accepted.  
  
Tate raised his glass. "A toast. To...attaining one's deepest desire!"  
  
Quentin clinked his glass against Tate's. Thought of taking the plunge and approaching Olivia Corey. Safe, as he never had been before, with the portrait in his possession.  
  
Perhaps that was what he had really been waiting for.  
  
"To...attaining one's deepest desire..."  
****


	2. Chapter 2

  
Four hours later a tired, thoroughly exasperated Quentin was trudging at Tate's side through ankle-deep snow. The snow was still falling, and an icy wind drove it into the men's faces, seeming to change direction whenever they did.  
  
Delays in getting taxis, traffic jams, and a long line in the bank had consumed three hours. Quentin had been forced to argue for fifteen minutes to get the ten thousand in cash. And after all that, Tate had insisted on leaving their taxi far from his studio, and leading him on foot through a maze of dark streets and even darker alleys.  
  
The cloak-and-dagger routine seemed childish and pointless. He couldn't imagine himself wanting to find the secretive artist's studio again.  
  
"Here we are." Tate gripped his elbow, steered him around a final corner, and indicated the barely visible side door of a dingy warehouse.  
  
"Charming," Quentin muttered, wondering if he dared hope the place would be heated. Surely Tate couldn't allow his canvases to warp? Or perhaps, with his powers, he had no need to concern himself with such mundane problems.  
  
Tate gave a series of staccato raps on the door. Moments later it was opened by a servant--a raven-haired, keen-eyed young man who bore more than a passing resemblance to Count Petofi's long-ago henchman, Aristede.  
  
"Come in, Quentin." Tate motioned him inside, followed and closed the door. He cast off his snow-covered coat, trusting--correctly--that the servant would catch it before it hit the floor. "Thank you, Jared. Would you like him to hang your coat up while you're here, Quentin?"  
  
Quentin looked around. He observed, thankfully, that the fawning Jared already had fires blazing, in two separate fireplaces. But an instant later he realized that not even that was enough to provide adequate heat in the barn-like, high ceilinged structure. "No, thanks. I'll keep it on."  
  
"As you wish."  
  
His eyes darted about, seeking his portrait. The studio was at least well-lighted, though with no source of the natural light he would have expected an artist to prefer during the day.  
  
A dozen paintings stood propped against the walls, but they were undistinguished landscapes. The work in progress, prominently displayed on an easel, was more representative of Tate's real stock-in-trade: a portrait of an expensively dressed young man, with an arrogant curl to his lip.  
  
In the further recesses of the room were several more easels. All bearing canvases of the appropriate size. All turned away from the door.  
  
He swallowed hard. He had been trying for the last hour to prepare himself for the appearance of his portrait, after all these years. Imagination failed him. And yet, Tate had said it would be recognizable...  
  
He turned to Tate--warming his hands at the fire--and said pointedly, "I'd like to get this over with. It's almost midnight." He rustled the wad of bills in his pocket.  
  
"Of course, Quentin." An understanding smile. "Will you please get Mr. Collins' portrait, Jared?"  
  
"Right away, sir." The man's leer told Quentin he was privy to his employer's secrets. He walked to the far end of the room, returned with one of the canvases, and handed it to Tate. Still turned away from Quentin.  
  
Tate looked at it fondly. "I have a special affection for this portrait. After all, this was the one that led me to discover my powers! I'm very proud of it.  
  
"I'm sure you will be too, Quentin."  
  
He turned the portrait to face its subject.  
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Quentin staggered backward. His legs buckled and he fell against the door, gagging.  
  
He could feel Tate's and Jared's eyes on him, sense their amusement...  
  
Slowly, he straightened.  
  
Forced himself to take a long, hard look.  
  
The man in the portrait was a bent, emaciated ruin. Of his once luxuriant hair, there remained only a few dirty gray wisps. One eye was filmed over, presumably sightless. A half-dozen angry sores marked the grotesquely distorted face--which appeared to have been pulled out of shape, initially, by a badly healed scar on the left cheek. Half the flesh of the nose had been eaten away.  
  
He took a deep breath. Tried to ignore the pounding of his heart. "All right. I--see what you meant. It is--recognizable."  
  
"The scar."  
  
"Yes, the scar." Petofi had slashed his face with a broken glass, to demonstrate that the injury would be deflected onto the portrait. Now, gruesome as it was, the scar removed his last shred of doubt. If Tate had faked up a portrait--simply painted an aged Quentin, for the purpose of cheating him out of ten thousand dollars--he undoubtedly would have forgotten that scar.  
  
He himself had forgotten. Until now.  
  
Tate cleared his throat. "Ah...our agreement, Quentin?"  
  
"Oh, yes, of course." He handed over the money, then gratefully accepted a seat while Tate counted it. The man had been looking over his shoulder when he counted it in the bank--but after seeing the portrait, he was too shaken to resent his counting it again.  
  
"It's all here. Lock it in the safe, Jared."  
  
"Yes, sir." They watched as Jared dialed a combination to open the wall safe, laid the cash inside, and carefully closed it again. The lock clicked into place.  
  
Tate smiled expansively. "Here you are, Quentin!" He formally handed him the portrait. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."  
  
"Thank you." Quentin tried to return the smile. "I...I know I'll have to walk some distance to get a taxi. Could you give me something to cover this?"  
  
His host looked pained. "Why, Quentin, aren't you eager to show it off? I assure you, my portraits are highly prized!"  
  
Quentin flushed. "It's snowing. I don't want to get it wet." True, but hardly the whole truth.  
  
"Hmm...I see." Tate pondered the problem. "Yes, I'm sure we can help you. Jared, get some burlap to wrap the portrait for Mr. Collins."  
  
"Very well, sir." The smirking Jared disappeared briefly, returned with a length of burlap, and wrapped the parcel under Quentin's watchful eye.  
  
Tate hovered solicitously. "Satisfied?"  
  
"Yes." Though he felt none of the elation he had expected, only a sick disgust. With himself, mostly, for being so repelled by the sight of the ravages of old age.  
  
"Then, once again, it's been a pleasure." Tate extended a hand, and he reluctantly shook it.  
  
He picked up the portrait, turned to leave. Jared had drifted away, and he heard Tate's footsteps already receding toward the back of the room.  
  
He put a hand on the doorknob.  
  
Tate's voice came from behind him.  
  
"Oh, Quentin. Before you leave...there's one more thing."  
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The voice had changed completely. Flint-hard, it sent a chill through his veins.  
  
He turned slowly, clutching the portrait. Every nerve-ending in his body screamed **_DANGER!_**  
  
The two men were standing near the center of the studio...Jared, for some reason, holding another canvas. Quentin's attention, however, was riveted on Tate. A faint smile still played over the artist's features, but he had dropped all pretense of sincerity. His eyes glowed with hatred.  
  
"You've bought and paid for the portrait, Quentin," he said softly. "So of course, it's yours to do with as you like.  
  
"But _I'd_ like you to throw it into that fireplace near you. Right now. I truly hope you'll do that."  
  
Quentin's blood ran cold. _He's insane. I should run. But...why does he even imagine he can make me do such a thing?_  
  
"I'm sure you're wondering _why_ you should destroy your portrait," the silky voice continued. "Have you heard of an actress called Olivia Corey?"  
  
Quentin's breath caught in his throat. He had foolishly assumed, from Tate's not having mentioned Olivia until now, that _he_ had not heard of her.  
  
"I see you have. Good. That will save us some time. You were in a hurry, as I recall..." Tate gestured to the obscenely grinning Jared, who handed him the canvas.  
  
The _portrait._  
  
"Would you like to see what the fair Olivia really looks like?"  
  
_No, no..._  
  
Tate studied the portrait, then shook his head in mock regret. "I'm afraid the years have been no kinder to her than to you, Quentin." Turning it slowly. "Your beloved."  
  
A gnarled, withered crone, with a few strands of yellowing hair. Her right eyelid drooped, and the entire right side of her face was distorted, as though paralyzed by a stroke. Her right arm curled unnaturally against a sagging breast, the hand a useless claw.  
  
_"No!"_ Tears were streaming down Quentin's cheeks.  
  
"I think you're beginning to understand why I brought you here!" A vicious smile. "It's very simple, really. You throw your portrait into the fireplace nearest you...or I'll throw _Amanda's_ into the one nearest _me_."  
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Quentin fought down panic. _Think. Think rationally._ "You're bluffing," he said firmly. "You couldn't do anything to hurt Amanda. You love her yourself--"  
  
"Don't be a fool!" Tate gave a harsh laugh. "Do you really believe I've been pining for this--artificial woman for sixty-odd years?  
  
"I assure you I haven't. As I recall, Amanda had lost her charm for me by the end of 1897. I've had hundreds of women since then. Nature's creations, and my own. Whenever my taste changes--which is frequently--I can make myself a new 'ideal woman'!"  
  
Quentin shuddered.  
  
"But you, Quentin...you are still obsessed with Amanda. If you weren't, I couldn't have lured you here."  
  
"I admit I still love her," Quentin said readily. "But I refuse to believe you don't! Why else would you still hate me so?"  
  
"Because you're the only man who has ever succeeded in taking a woman away from me," Tate hissed. "That's why I hate you. The woman herself is inconsequential."  
  
He moved closer to the fire. His eyes glittered in its reflected light. "I can almost see the wheels turning in your head, Quentin. You're thinking of rushing me, or throwing some burning object at me.   
  
"It wouldn't work. You can't injure me, and you can't do anything quickly enough to prevent my throwing this portrait into the fire. You'd get here before it was destroyed, but then Jared and I would restrain you. You can't hope to overpower both of us."  
  
Quentin licked suddenly dry lips. "I...I'll torch your studio! And I'm the only one near the door." That might have some effect on Jared, if not on Tate.  
  
Both men smiled serenely.  
  
"Go ahead and torch it," Tate said evenly. "There's nothing here of any real value to me. Except the money...and that's in a fireproof safe.  
  
"That door isn't the only exit. But even if it were, it would make no difference. As I said, you can't injure me. Jared is, of course, similarly protected. And _our_ portraits are in a safe place."  
  
Quentin winced. Clutched his portrait to his chest. "What...what will happen to me if I destroy this?" he asked shakily.  
  
"I don't know." Tate reverted to an almost conversational tone. "This will be a test case. I'm eager to learn the answer.  
  
"One possibility is that you'll simply begin to age normally--and, of course, fall victim to the werewolf curse again. But it's also possible the years will catch up with you all at once.  
  
"And in your case, I'd say there's a third possibility. After cheating the curse all these years, you might become a werewolf immediately. Perhaps even permanently."  
  
"Tate!" Quentin was ready to grasp at any straw. "If I turn into a werewolf, I'll attack _you._  
  
"It's easy to say I can't injure you. If your portrait's like mine, it protects against serious or disfiguring injury, but not short-term pain. A werewolf attack could cause you a great deal of pain.  
  
"And I'll undoubtedly bite you. You'll survive, and become a werewolf. Your curse will be absorbed by your portrait--but what about your descendants?"  
  
Tate snorted disdainfully. "Do you realize how pathetic you sound? You don't know a hereditary curse can be transmitted that way. And you don't know whether I have descendants, or care about them if I do.  
  
"It's no use, Quentin. Have you forgotten that a werewolf transformation is preceded by several minutes of intense, incapacitating pain? If Jared and I see that happening to you--pain, but no sign of rapid aging--we'll have plenty of time to get away. Especially since we have a car nearby.  
  
"And beyond all that"-- he drew his lips back in a malicious smile--"we've taken the precaution of wearing _these_." Balancing the portrait on the floor, he reached inside his collar and pulled out a medallion.  
  
A silver pentagram.  
  
Quentin felt his last hope slip away.  
  
He clung to the portrait. _He's bluffing. He has to be bluffing.  
  
If I run for it, I know I can get away. Even if they come after me. The snow will blind them, cover my footprints quickly...and I won't have to go far. There must be dozens of hiding places in a neighborhood like this. Half the buildings looked abandoned.  
  
If they take time to grab their coats or get to their car, they'll lose me. And if they don't, and don't catch me almost immediately, they'll have to give up.  
  
I'm sure he's bluffing.  
  
And...even if he isn't...  
  
If he isn't...if he burns Amanda's portrait, there's a fifty-fifty chance she'll just start to age normally. She might even welcome that. I would, if I didn't have a werewolf curse hanging over me.  
  
Only a slight chance he'll burn her portrait. A very slight chance. And if he does, a fifty-fifty chance it will do her no real harm..._  
  
He closed his eyes.  
  
And still saw Amanda's portrait. The ancient, wizened face, the horribly crippled arm.  
  
If he ran away, he'd probably never learn what had happened. And that image would haunt him all his days. Sleeping or waking, he'd see Amanda, his Amanda, turning into _that..._  
  
He opened his eyes. Took a long, shuddering breath.  
  
Then, before his courage could fail him, he hurled his portrait into the fire.  
****  
  



	3. Chapter 3

  
  
He stood transfixed.  
  
The only movement in the studio was the devil-dance of the flames, the only sound their crackling laughter. They pounced on the portrait, licked lustfully at the blackening burlap.  
  
He fought a wild impulse to plunge into the fire and retrieve it. _Amanda. Think of Amanda._  
  
Another thought intruded. _Tate. Rhymes with "hate."_ Tate and Jared were gazing spellbound into the flames. _I can jump him now, catch him off guard and grab Amanda's portrait. Get out the door and away before anything happens to me, deny him the pleasure of seeing it._  
  
He half turned toward Tate, rose on the balls of his feet.  
  
And searing, slashing pain tore across his left cheek.  
  
He screamed, less from the severity of the wound than from its shocking suddenness. Forgetting Tate, he sank to his knees, clutching his face. Something was happening to his cheek. He felt not only pain, but a pulling sensation that was drawing his lower eyelid down, the corner of his mouth out and up... He moaned in horror.  
  
Stabbing pain in his right eye, water streaming from it... Every joint in his body seemed suddenly aflame, and he gasped as a knife-sharp pain in his back bent him double. _The werewolf transformation? No, it was never like this._  
  
He gagged on loose objects that had somehow gotten into his mouth. Spat them out, and realized they were teeth.  
  
His hands pained him, and what blurry vision he still had--in the left eye--told him arthritis had twisted them into claws. Claws spotted with age... He stifled a whimper.  
  
His coat was unbearably heavy, weighing down his frail, pain-wracked body. He wanted desperately to struggle out of it, but knew he could not. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart threatened to burst from his chest...  
  
A booted foot crashed into his ribs.  
  
The kick sent him sprawling. An explosion of pain took his breath away, and for a few seconds everything went black.  
  
Then he found himself lying on his face, in a paroxysm of coughing. Coughing up blood, he could taste it. Spitting out more teeth.  
  
"Perfect! Can you hear me, Quentin?" Hands gripped him roughly, yanked him up to his knees again. "Look at me when I speak to you!" He felt bones crack, and a spreading wetness in his crotch told him he had lost control of his bladder.  
  
Tate laughed.  
  
"Yes, from the look on your face, you know what's happening." His tormentor shook him--hard--and then let him slip down to a sitting position, dropping to his knees beside him. "This is what I was hoping for. You still understand what's going on, as a wolf wouldn't. But you're in no condition to give me any trouble."  
  
Quentin struggled to speak. "So you're...happy it...works this way," he wheezed. "You may not be...as happy...when someone...destroys..._your_ portrait." An empty threat, and they both knew it.  
  
Tate leered at him. "I'll take my chances. I don't know why you're so cranky, Quentin! It looks like you won't have to worry about the werewolf curse." He chuckled. "The moon won't be full for a week, and you don't look healthy enough to last that long.  
  
"But for now, I'm glad you're conscious and lucid. Can you see well enough to follow what I'm doing?" His fist shot out, stopping inches from Quentin's face--as Quentin blinked, gasped, and tried feebly to pull away. Then the fist made rapid feints to left and right. "Yes, I think you can. At least one eye is tracking--sort of."  
  
Tate leapt lightly to his feet. "I've been planning this evening for some time. Glad you'll be able to appreciate the rest of the entertainment!" He sauntered away.  
  
_There's more?_ Quentin clung to consciousness, blinked frantically in an effort to clear his vision. He wanted to sit up, watch his enemy...but the weight of his coat and the pain in chest, side and back proved too much to bear. He felt himself crumpling.  
  
"Can't have you lying down on us, Mr. Collins!" Jared. The manservant grabbed his coat collar, dragged him to the nearby door, and propped him against it with a thump. "There. Aren't you going to say 'thank you'?"  
  
Quentin was past speech. But he managed to spit at Jared--and was rewarded with a hard blow to his ravaged left cheek. Darkness closed in...  
  
Then the room swam back into view. His face throbbed, and he felt swelling already threatening to shut his "good" eye. But Jared was holding a bottle of smelling salts to his nose. "No nodding off, sir!"  
  
_Hang on. It will all be over soon. I've had a long life, and I'm ending it well. Whatever Tate does to me, I'll be able to die in peace, knowing I did the right thing. I didn't let you down, Amanda! You'll never know about this. But for once in my life--at the end, when it mattered most--I did the right thing._  
  
Tate walked into his field of vision. Carrying Amanda's portrait.  
  
_Oh, God._  
  
The artist smiled pleasantly. "We've destroyed one extremely ugly portrait tonight--sorry, Quentin! No offense intended." He smirked. "Now it's time to rid ourselves of another eyesore. Would you like to do the honors again?"  
  
Quentin gurgled. Fought for breath, tried again. "No!" he croaked. "Tate--you wouldn't! _No!"_ He tried desperately to get to his feet--floundering like a fish on land, aware Jared was laughing at him. Tears stung his eyes, rolled unchecked down his cheeks.  
  
"No?" Tate sighed theatrically. "Then it seems to be my turn."  
  
He came closer. Loomed over Quentin, still writhing on the floor in a vain attempt to get his legs under him. Allowed his victim a clear look at the portrait, and his own maliciously smiling face.  
  
Quentin tried to clutch at his ankle, found his hands crippled to the point of uselessness.  
  
Tate turned away.  
  
And flung the portrait into the fire.  
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_"Noooo! **Nooooooo!"**_**** Then Quentin was merely shrieking, over and over, language forgotten. He braced himself against the door, somehow pulled himself up. _Get to the fireplace. Save it, save it!_ He lurched forward. But quivering matchstick legs refused to support him, and he fell in a sobbing heap at Tate's feet.  
  
"You idiot." Tate grabbed him by what remained of his hair, and pulled him up to a sitting position. This time, at a gesture from Tate, Jared held him that way--with a leg at his back, a hand clutching the hair to keep his head up.  
  
"Listen to me. I want you to understand what a fool you've been." Tate bent over him, a demonic gleam in his eyes. Spoke slowly and clearly. "I wouldn't have hesitated to destroy a real portrait of Amanda Harris. But the canvas I just burned couldn't protect--or harm--anyone. I only painted it within the last few days! If you had insisted on examining it, you would have discovered _the paint was still wet._"  
  
For an instant, Quentin felt only relief.  
  
Then it hit him. There had been no need to destroy _his_ portrait. There was nothing, _nothing_ Tate could have done to hurt Amanda!  
  
His fury erupted in a savage howl. He lashed out at Tate, flailing wildly with his puny arms.  
  
But none of his blows connected. His strength failed him in less than a minute, and his arms fell limp at his sides. His sobs trailed off, ending in a broken moan.  
  
Tate waited until Quentin was still, his panting breath the only sound in the room. Then he continued. "I never gave Amanda any magical protection. She aged in the normal way. In fact, she's been dead for twenty years.  
  
"I was sure she had died. But even so, I went to great lengths in investigating Olivia Corey. As you could have, if you hadn't been so eager to believe. I checked her background, even tapped her phone. Olivia is just what she claims to be--a twenty-two-year-old from the Midwest, fresh out of college. Her resemblance to Amanda is pure coincidence.  
  
"Do you understand, Quentin? You've thrown your life away for nothing. Nothing!" He drew himself up to his full height, stood proudly over his fallen foe.  
  
Quentin found his voice. "_You_ could have...destroyed...my portrait. Any time."  
  
"Yes, of course," Tate acknowledged. "But it was important you be here. I was telling the truth about this being a test case.  
  
"And given that"--his lip curled--"I couldn't resist tricking you into destroying it yourself. You even paid ten thousand dollars for the privilege!  
  
"You have no one but yourself to blame. I gave you a sporting chance. I deliberately left the paint on the fake portrait wet--gambling that after the scar convinced you of the authenticity of your portrait, you wouldn't question Amanda's. Jared thought I was staking too much on your gullibility, but you didn't disappoint me.  
  
"You could easily have seen through my ruse. Failing that--if you had simply had the brains to put yourself first, you could have gotten away! Even if Jared and I pursued you--and I'm not saying we would have--you could have escaped with your own portrait."  
  
"I know." A barely audible whisper.  
  
Tate shook his head. "You're a romantic fool. But I'm glad you are. Your stupidity has given me the revenge I've dreamed of for sixty years!"  
  
Quentin let his eyes close, didn't try to answer. _You don't understand, do you, Tate? You have no sense of honor.  
  
You haven't defeated me. You're killing me, but you haven't defeated me. I can die knowing that, given the knowledge I had, I did the only right thing. If I had run away, I never would have been able to live with myself again. And then, only then, would you have won._  
  
Drifting toward unconsciousness, he was brought back with a jolt when Jared released his hold and let him fall heavily to the floor. "What do you plan to do with him, sir?"  
  
"We'll leave him in an alley somewhere." He heard the shrug in Tate's voice. "Far from here--that's all that matters."  
  
"You don't intend to--ah--make sure he's dead before we leave him?"  
  
A moment's reflection. "No. Don't worry. He's too far gone to last the night. Even if he should, no one would believe his story. And he'd never be able to find this place again.  
  
"But...I want him to live as long as possible. _Suffer_ as long as possible."  
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And suffer he did. He was still conscious when they dragged him out into the street, along a stretch of uneven, icy pavement, and heaved him into the back seat of a car. More bones fractured.  
  
He focused on keeping silent, not allowing them the satisfaction of hearing him moan.  
  
He was not completely successful.  
  
Lying helpless on the seat, he rolled off onto the floor the first time Jared braked for a red light. Mercifully, he passed out. But when he came to the car was still jouncing along, and he was still on the floor, limbs bent at impossible angles. He stank of feces, felt the warm bulk inside his trousers.  
  
_It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. Go back to sleep._  
  
But "sleep" refused to come, and the bumping and bouncing went on for what seemed an eternity.  
  
At last he heard Tate say, "This will do. We won't find any place darker."  
  
Jared slammed on the brake, and he felt the car skid on ice. He wished it would crash into a building and kill them all... But no, Tate and Jared _couldn't_ be killed.  
  
Instead, it came to a shuddering stop. He heard doors flung open, felt a rush of air even colder than the still-frigid interior. Gasped as someone grabbed him by the feet and forcibly straightened his legs.  
  
"Huh. He is still alive back here." Jared sounded surprised.  
  
"I thought he would be. Tough old bird." Was that grudging admiration? "Haul him out."  
  
More nightmarish jolting and jarring, more bumping along icy pavement. Then he was dropped half into a snowbank.  
  
"Quentin?" Tate's voice. And Tate's foot, undoubtedly, prodding him in the ribs. "Once again, I've enjoyed doing business with you. Hope you consider your ten thousand well spent!"  
  
Tears froze on his face as the men's mocking laughter died away.  
****  



	4. Chapter 4

  
  
He lay shivering where they had left him. Unsure which was worse, the agony of his shattered bones or the killing cold. He made a feeble attempt to pull his coat more tightly about him. _Don't know whether to be glad or sorry they left me the coat. Death would come sooner without it._  
  
Snow was falling again. It covered his eyes, filled his slack mouth. _Can't lift a hand to brush it away. God, what a way to end! I wonder if I'll be half-eaten by rats before I'm found? Considering what I must look like, it might be an improvement.  
  
No, don't think like that. However it may seem, I am dying with dignity. I'll be with Amanda soon, and she'll know, she'll know.  
  
Strange. It just hit me that I'll never see daylight again.  
  
How could this have happened so quickly? Betty...was it only yesterday? Betty, I'm sorry..._  
  
He drifted in and out of consciousness, and coherent thought gave way to a jumble of dream images. Amanda, heart-stoppingly beautiful, cried out in despair as he tore himself away. Time traveler Julia Hoffman faded to nothingness before his eyes. Jenny breathed her last, with his hands around her neck. His vampire cousin Barnabas bade him farewell at the depot and strode off into the night, risking his life to stay behind and face Count Petofi. A wild-eyed Beth backed away from him and stumbled over the edge of Widow's Hill. The boy Jamison screamed, "I hate you!" Betty met his eyes across the breakfast table and said, "You're leaving me, aren't you?"  
  
At first, dreaming or waking, pain was his constant companion. Then, mysteriously, it eased. He was numb, almost warm. Not uncomfortable. Even his dreams became less troubling, as he frolicked with a younger Jamison...clasped the hand Barnabas extended in friendship...sank sleepily into the embrace of a woman he could not quite identify. _Jamison is dead. If Barnabas stayed in the past with Kitty Soames, he's dead too. Amanda...?_  
  
No matter. He was ready.  
  
And then someone was bending over him, stale whiskey-laced breath in his face. "Mister? Mister, are you all--Omigod!" Snow-muffled footsteps pelted away.  
  
"Don'...don' call anyone," he mumbled. Or thought he did. " 'S all right. Leave me alone. Let me...die in peace..."  
  
He was still muttering when the ambulance arrived.  
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After that he lost all track of time. He knew he was in a hospital. No more darkness, but no daylight either. Never again. Here there was only artificial light, so bright it hurt his eyes. No respite, never any respite from the light.  
  
Tubes. Needles. Shocked faces, kind voices. Decent people trying to make him comfortable, aware they could do nothing more.  
  
The inevitable question. "Can you tell us your name, sir?"  
  
And he said clearly, "Quentin Collins," proudly claiming the name that had not crossed his lips for sixty years.  
  
It made no difference, of course. He would be given a pauper's burial, in an unmarked grave. But at least he would die under his rightful name.  
  
More tubes. More needles.  
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"Mr. Collins?"  
  
The too-bright light resolved itself into a face surrounded by a cloud of midnight-black hair, and for an instant he thought she was someone else, a long-dead someone who came to see him often now, in his dreams.  
  
Then his vision cleared. As much as it ever did. And he saw there was only a slight resemblance. This woman was...was...  
  
Betty.  
  
_Betty?_  
  
He caught his breath. She couldn't be here, _couldn't!_  
  
But she was. He drank in the sight of her...then realized that, whatever crazy chance had brought her to his bedside, he mustn't let her know he recognized her. There would be no explaining it.  
  
"Mr. Collins? Can you understand me?" She bent close, and gently touched his face. Her lip was quivering. "My name is Betty Thorn. I'm going to take care of you. I promise!  
  
"But please, please, try to tell me what's become of my husband. What has happened to Rick?"  
  
He stalled for time while he tried to think. "Who...how...?" _And when, Betty, did you begin to think of me as your husband?_  
  
"My husband, Rick Thorn. He's disappeared. And you were wearing his clothes, carrying his identification." She hesitated, studying his face, then forged ahead. "And...and you had a letter. The envelope was addressed to Rick, but the note inside began '_Dear Quentin_.' "  
  
_Damn_. How could he possibly explain that? He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the pain in hers. Why in God's name did she still care? How had they even found her?  
  
"Please! Tell me what's happened to Rick!"  
  
He sucked in a breath. Heard the rattle in his throat. "Rick...is...dead."  
  
"I don't believe you!"  
  
He forced himself to look at her again. She was weeping now, her tears fell on his cheeks...her glittering eyes seemed to pierce his soul. "There's something about you," she whispered. "Your face... I see something of Rick in you. Are you...a relative?"  
  
"No! I...can't help you. And you...don't need...to bother...with me. _Go away_."  
  
_"Never!"_ Her eyes widened. "Oh, my God...now I know who you are. I don't understand it. But...somehow...you _are **Rick!**"**  
  
**_****He tried to speak, but she silenced him with a shaky, feather-light kiss on his cracked lips. "Don't try to deny it. And don't worry, I won't tell anyone else. Just rest, sleep. Let me take care of you."  
  
He gave up protesting. Somehow, insane as it seemed, she knew, she believed.  
  
This couldn't be happening. But he was bone-weary, and his head ached. He'd try to figure it out later.  
  
He slipped his gnarled hand trustingly into hers, and drifted off to sleep.  
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When he woke he was being moved onto a stretcher. "No!" he gasped. "Please, no more..."  
  
"It's all right, Mr. Collins. Sshh." Betty. So that hadn't been a dream, she was really here. She turned to speak to someone else. "Let me talk to him alone for a few minutes." He sensed, rather than saw or heard, nurses and orderlies drifting out of the room.  
  
Betty knelt beside him, her soft face almost touching his. "Don't be afraid, Rick. I promised I'd take care of you."  
  
He squinted, trying to see her more clearly. "Why...weren't...you...stopping them? They...wanted to...move me..."  
  
"I'm the one who wants to move you! I'm taking you home." She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  
  
"Home?" He repeated the word without comprehension. "Betty. I'm. _Dying_."  
  
"I...I know." Her voice trembled, then steadied. "I can make you more comfortable at home, Rick. Not in our own bed, I'm afraid, but at least downstairs. In the study you love so much, remember? The trip will be easy, I promise."  
  
The trip. _From New York to Boston?_ It made no sense. Why wouldn't she let him die in peace?  
  
He was struck by sudden suspicion. Why did she want to torture him by moving him now? What was she doing here in the first place? He found himself remembering Tate's words. _"My...unique talent...has brought me wealth **and** influence, Quentin. Influence extending into areas you couldn't possibly imagine."  
  
No! I can't let my experience with Tate make me suspicious of everyone. If I let him poison the one good thing left in my life, he wins._  
  
Still...he heard himself asking, "How...did...you...get here? How...did you...know?"  
  
His tone must have been harsher than he intended. He saw the hurt in her eyes. But she said calmly, "The police found me. You were carrying ID, remember? No address or phone number, but there was an address on the envelope in your pocket. The Boston police came to the house while I was packing to leave. Another ten minutes and I would have been gone." She shuddered.  
  
"Anyway, I've told them you're my husband's grandfather. That doesn't explain your carrying his ID, but it will have to do. Thank God I hadn't blurted out that you were wearing his clothes! I suppose I was in denial, didn't want to admit it even to myself."  
  
He pursued the main point. "Why do you...want to move me? _Now?_"  
  
"Rick--is it all right if I call you that? I'll always think of you as Rick." Was she on the verge of tears? "Even if we only have a little time left, I want to make it quality time. I _can_ make you comfortable at home!   
  
"And the doctors here aren't really doing much. They didn't think you could...tolerate surgery. Or heavy casts. So they just taped your ribs, and put light-weight splints on your broken legs. And they're giving you IV fluids, and medication for pain. That's about all."  
  
"I...know that." Something still didn't make sense.  
  
Suddenly, he realized what it was. "Don't you...don't you..._wonder?_"  
  
"How this could have happened to you?" She drew back a little, gazed at him sorrowfully. "Yes, of course I do. But even if you know the answer and want to tell me, I understand you're too weak to explain.  
  
"So it's okay. It happened. I can accept not knowing how or why."  
  
He felt a surge of guilt at having doubted her. And yet... "How..._Boston?_"  
  
"I promise we'll move you gently, Rick, and we'll give you something to help you sleep. You'll sleep the whole way. I've chartered a plane, and you'll have round-the-clock private duty nurses at home."  
  
_"Plane?"_ He almost choked. Had Betty lost her mind? He couldn't have afforded that _before_ Tate cleaned him out. Now, even private duty nurses were out of the question.  
  
"Betty." His heart was pounding, but he clung stubbornly to consciousness. He had to reason with her. "Listen...to me. The man who...did this...to me...tricked me into...giving him...ten thousand dollars. That was...practically all I had. We...can't afford...a plane. Or nurses. We...don't have any money!" Tears of shame burned on his cheeks.  
  
"It's all right, Rick." Her voice was soft, soothing. "I have plenty of money. Don't worry about it. Don't worry about anything."  
  
_What?_ How could she have "plenty of money"? All his doubts came flooding back. He pulled away from her in panic.  
  
But she must have gestured to someone waiting outside the door. Even as he tried to say, _"No!,"_ a hypodermic needle drove into his thigh.  
  
Sinking into sleep, he managed to mutter a final request. "Outdoors."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Let me...see...outdoors. Daylight. One last time."  
  
"I...I will, Rick." Her voice cracked. "I'll wake you--with another injection, if necessary--while we're outdoors. I'll make sure you see it."  
  
She was true to her word.  
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The ambulance ride to the airport, the flight, and another long drive blurred into one. He was physically comfortable, slept throughout much of the trip...but even in sleep, questions nagged at him.  
  
How could Betty have this kind of money? She had been a schoolteacher, for God's sake. Living frugally when they met. And she was only in her thirties, too young to have accumulated significant savings...  
  
Only in her thirties. _Was_ she in her thirties? Tate's mocking laughter echoed through his dreams. _"Influence extending into areas you couldn't possibly imagine..."_  
  
Was Betty indebted to Tate?  
  
Was it his publisher who had given Tate his address? His banker, who had disclosed details of his finances?  
  
Or...  
  
_Where was she taking him, really?_  
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He woke in what he recognized as a hospital bed. The room around him was a whirl of muted colors...but gradually, it stabilized.  
  
His study. It truly was his old-fashioned, book-lined study. His most treasured possession, his antique gramophone, was so near him he could...he could... Still disbelieving, he stretched out a withered arm, touched the satin-smooth surface. It was real. And daylight was streaming through slitted shutters, the shutters he had lovingly painted only last month.  
  
"Hello. Isn't this better?" Betty, stroking his sparse hair.  
  
He tried to smile at her. "Yes. Better. Thank you."  
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But as the hours (days?) wore on, he continued to fret over Betty's money. "How...how can you...afford this? You were a teacher..."  
  
"You can't let it rest, can you?" She had been with him almost constantly, despite the presence of a half-dozen nurses.  
  
Now she sighed. "I can't blame you for wondering about it. I'm not proud of my past, or I would have told you long ago.  
  
"The truth is, I have a large inheritance. My father was very wealthy. But I was illegitimate. He claimed to love me. But I wanted public acknowledgment, and he never came through for me. Left me _money_ instead.  
  
"I was tempted to refuse the inheritance. But something--a voice within--told me to accept it, that I'd need it someday. I wasn't willing to live on his damned money, so I invested all of it. Continued in the life-style I could provide for myself.  
  
"I didn't tell you about the money because I knew you wouldn't want to use it, either. You struck me as an old-fashioned man who wanted to support his woman. Was I wrong?"  
  
He managed a rueful grin. "No."  
  
She perched on the edge of the bed, caressed his face. "And now I know why I accepted it. _This_ is the crisis I needed it for.  
  
"So please, Rick, let me spend my money on you. Only on you..."  
  
Wondering, he slept.  
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For a time, with devoted care, he rallied. He knew he would never rise from this bed again. But he did begin taking nourishment by mouth. First sipping water and juice through a straw, then swallowing soft foods that Betty gently spooned into his mouth.  
  
"Good, good," she crooned, as she fed him a spoonful of yogurt. "You're a fighter, aren't you, my darling? I'm so proud of you."  
  
_"My darling"? You never called me that before. For God's sake, woman, don't go falling in love with me! Not now, not now..._  
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Soon, all too soon, a cough that had been suppressed by medication determinedly reasserted itself. Stronger doses were of no avail...and every spasm of coughing left him weaker. The small gains he had made slipped away. His intervals of consciousness were fewer, his mind clouded. Whenever he succeeded in focusing on Betty's face, her eyes were moist.  
  
He knew he was sinking fast. Surprisingly, there was very little pain. But the death-rattle in his throat was constant.  
  
He reached out, groping in the darkness that was rapidly closing in...  
  
"Yes, Rick!" Betty, of course. "Do you want to touch your gramophone again?" Guiding his hand to it.  
  
"No," he rasped. "Wanted...to touch..._you_."  
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The pain struck without warning. Unlike any pain he had known recently, _waves_ of excruciating pain that began at the crown of his head and swept down the length of his body, contorting his limbs, shattering the wooden splints on his legs, as Betty's white face bent over him her perfumed hair tumbled around him her shrieks mingled madly with his. Pain he had not known since...since...  
  
_Oh my God. I forgot. How could I **forget?**_****  
  
He saw Tate again, heard his enemy's mocking voice. _"Tonight is Friday, in case you hadn't noticed... It looks like you won't have to worry about the werewolf curse. The moon won't be full for a week, and you don't look healthy enough to last that long."  
  
A week. Oh, God. Could I have survived like this for a week?_  
  
The pain, the convulsions eased. What did that mean? _Oh yes, there always was an interval when the pain stopped, when I let myself hope it wouldn't go any further.  
  
"Always." Four months, that's all it was, four months in another century, another lifetime. It can't be happening now, not the way I am! It can't..._  
  
Panting, he looked up into Betty's wild, terrified eyes. Terrified as Beth's had been, long ago. She was braced to hold him down on the bed, her breathing as labored as his.  
  
The reaction was hitting him now, spindly body soaked with sweat and shivering uncontrollably.  
  
Betty said brokenly, "I'll...I'll call..."  
  
"No! Don't...call anyone. What...what day is it?"  
  
"What?" Confused and panicky now, starting to cry.  
  
He tried to swallow, catch his breath. Consciousness fading... _"What...day...is...it?"_  
  
"F-Friday." Her lip trembled. "Friday, December second."  
  
_No no no no noooo!_  
  
He steadied himself. _It's all right. My body can't take this, there's no chance I'll live long enough to transform. Concentrate on Betty's face, let that be the image I carry with me into eternity._  
  
The pain came again, convulsions that ripped his flesh and rent his bones, and he bucked like a tortured animal in Betty's grasp, their screams ripping and rending the fabric of the night. On and on it went, on and on.  
  
_God no!_ A clear thought cut through the pain. _I **am** going to transform!  
  
"Betty!"_ he howled. _"Get away! **Get away!**"_  
  
But she was frozen in shock. He felt himself reach out to her again, this time involuntarily. Blurred vision showed him the limb he was extending--an animal's hairy forelimb, ending in wicked claws that went straight for her breast.  
  
**_"Nooooo!"_** As unrelenting night closed in on him, he heard his cry of despair give way to a werewolf's growl.  
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**********  
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He was cold, very cold. And for a moment he felt a trace of nausea.  
  
But his overwhelming sensation was one of exhilaration, of extraordinary well-being. He stretched, flexed his muscles, then sprang to his feet and stretched again. Took a deep breath that filled his lungs with crisp, invigorating air--and let out a whoop of sheer delight. He even executed an impromptu dance step.  
  
This made no sense at all. He forced himself to stand still, try to get his bearings.  
  
It still made no sense. It was winter, and he was standing in what appeared to be an alley--barefoot, wearing only the tattered remains of some kind of nightshirt.  
  
Had he been sleepwalking? Maybe...it was barely dawn. And sleepwalking might account for the confused state he was in. But if he had wandered outdoors on a winter night, practically naked, why did he feel so _good?_  
  
He was drunk, that was it! Drunk, or high on something else. Maybe this was a stage he always went through when he got smashed, and he normally didn't remember it.  
  
First things first. He wasn't falling-down drunk, thank God. And there wouldn't be many people in the streets--the streets of wherever--at this hour. So it shouldn't be hard to acquire clothes.  
  
He set about his task methodically, trying to ignore the chattering of his teeth. Fortunately, he was in the right part of town--or rather, of a city he quickly identified as Boston. He selected a stylish men's clothing store, warmed his hands at a sidewalk grate, and expertly disabled the alarm. One of many skills he had picked up in the course of a long and sometimes shady life.  
  
Five minutes later, warm and comfortable in the now discreetly lighted store, he padded into a fitting room carrying an armload of shirts, trousers and underwear. Dropped his burden...and got his first look at himself in the mirror.  
  
Nothing unusual about the tall, muscular body, the tousled dark hair and unlined face.  
  
But the torn nightshirt was heavily stained with blood.  
  
He considered that. Obviously not his own blood...so he must have gotten into a fight while he was drunk. (Wearing a _nightshirt?_) The amount of blood was misleading, had to be! He was hopelessly uncoordinated when he was drunk; he couldn't have done any serious damage. He had bloodied the other guy's nose, that was all.  
  
He put the blood resolutely out of his mind, stripped off the nightshirt, and concentrated on selecting a new outfit.  
  
In another ten minutes he had settled on navy pants, a blue-and-white striped shirt and crimson pullover. He donned appropriate shoes and socks (not boots, the weather didn't seem severe enough for that), and began looking at winter jackets. He was whistling cheerfully now. He'd probably keep the clothes...to make himself feel better about it, he'd mail the store enough cash to cover the purchase price. Mail it anonymously, of course...  
  
He stopped in his tracks, suddenly realizing what he was whistling. _My God. "Shadows of the Night"? I haven't thought of that in years, that old song I used to play all the time on my...gramophone..._  
  
Something clicked in his mind.  
  
_"Yes, Rick! Do you want to touch your gramophone again?"  
  
"No. Wanted...to touch...**you**."_  
  
And then it all came flooding back, the week-long nightmare that had been too horribly real, _the werewolf's claws reaching out to rake Betty..._  
  
That was when he began to shriek.  
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He was only dimly aware of bursting out of the store--still without a jacket--and racing through deserted streets in the general direction of home. Slipping on ice, blinded by tears... _Betty can't be dead, she can't be... No, face it, damn you. There's no way she can be alive. You killed Betty last night, and if you burn in hell for all eternity, it won't be punishment enough.  
  
_A car passed him, a blur at the edge of his field of vision--moving slowly in the opposite direction, from the suburbs in toward the city. Moments later he heard brakes squealing, the motor kicking in again. A U-turn?  
  
Now the driver behind him was honking madly. _Leave me alone, for God's sake! Haven't you ever seen a running man before? There's no law against it.  
  
Of course, there probably is a law against tearing one's wife limb from limb..._ _  
  
_"Rick! _Rick!_"  
  
He pulled up short. It couldn't be. Couldn't!  
  
He turned slowly, afraid to see the face that belonged to that voice.  
  
And then she was tumbling out of the car and into his arms. Her mouth locking on his in a kiss such as they had never shared before, her hands wildly exploring his hair, his face, all the contours of his well-muscled body, until they came at last to his zipper.  
  
He lifted her back into the car, laid her on the seat and flung himself on her.  
  
And never, never had it been like this. Not with her. Not with anyone.  
****___  
  
_


	5. Chapter 5

**_  
  
_**  
"I--I can't get it." Betty was crying and giggling at the same time. "My hand keeps shaking. Here, you do it." She pressed the key into Quentin's hand.  
  
He had the shakes too. But he got the door open somehow, and they stumbled into the living room and collapsed on the sofa. A moment later they were embracing again, each of them rapturously caressing a warm, vital young body they had thought lost forever.  
  
They made love again. But this time, when their passion was spent, he held her at arm's length and looked long and hard into those shining eyes.  
  
"Betty. Do you understand what I turned into last night?"  
  
The light in her eyes faded. "Y-yes." She hugged herself, looking away. "I'd know about it from your books, even if I'd never heard of it before. You became a"--she choked on the word--"a werewolf."  
  
"All right. I'll try to explain. But..." He looked around, trying to organize his thoughts. Feeling more and more bewildered. "_I_ don't understand what happened here."  
  
It made sense, on reflection, that their screams the night before hadn't roused the neighborhood. He'd had the house soundproofed a while back, after the neighbors objected to an especially noisy occult ritual he had tested prior to describing it in a novel. Their protests would have been even more vocal if they'd guessed that the howls in response to his chants were, in all probability, of demonic origin.  
  
But why hadn't those private duty nurses rushed into his room last night? If they'd been afraid to come in, why hadn't they called the police? They obviously hadn't, or the place would be swarming with cops now. All Betty had told him in the car was that the nurses were all right.  
  
She met his eyes. "You're wondering about the nurses. I had dismissed them, Rick, earlier yesterday. B-b-because I thought you were dying, that you wouldn't last the night. There was nothing anyone could do at that point. And I just w-wanted to be alone with you!" She broke down in tears. He gathered her into his arms, felt her quivering like a frightened bird.  
  
He held her, stroking her until she was calmer. Then she looked up, and continued in a shaky voice. "I-I tried to stop you from running out of here, after you ch-changed. But of course I couldn't. I didn't know what to do... I cried all night, then started out at daybreak to look for you. But I never expected to find you, certainly not l-like this. I didn't expect to find you _alive_ at all!"  
  
"I didn't expect to find you alive either." He studied her troubled face. "Betty. Do you have any idea why I didn't kill you?"  
  
"Y-yes." She gave a long shudder. "I think it was because of...this."  
  
She fumbled inside her turtleneck, and pulled out something he had never seen on her before. A silver chain...and suspended from it, a medallion. A _pentagram_.  
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He recoiled in spite of himself. Confused, hurt. "You knew? You _expected_ me to turn into a werewolf?"  
  
"No, of course not!" Her eyes blazed. "How could I? All I expected you to do last night was _die!_ I didn't even know there was a full moon. I was so wrapped up in you that I was completely out of it."  
  
"Then why--?"  
  
"Why was I wearing a pentagram?" She sighed. "Because I always wear it, Rick. Or rather, almost always. Inside my clothes.   
  
"I knew what it was, and I knew you understood such things, so I was self-conscious around you. I never wanted you to see it. When I was getting ready to go to bed with you, I always took it off and slipped it under the pillow."  
  
He reached out and touched it with a tentative finger. Still mystified.  
  
Betty captured his hand and lifted it to her lips. "I'll tell you why I wear it now. It's...the only memento I have. Of...my father."  
  
His jaw dropped. "Your father?" His mind raced back, struggling to recall what little she had told him about that mysterious parent. "Your _father_ was--?"  
  
"No, no! It's not what you think. He didn't give it to me for protection." Her hand closed on the medallion, and her eyes misted. "It was the best day I ever spent with him. The one time I ever felt close to him.  
  
"He told me he wanted me to have this to remember him by, always. Because it was his most treasured possession. He said he had taken it--this 'piece of jewelry,' he called it--from the dead body of the only woman he had ever loved. Not his wife, or my mother. Someone else..."  
  
"How strange," Quentin breathed. "That was all it meant to him, a 'piece of jewelry' of sentimental value? He didn't understand the significance of the pentagram?"  
  
"I can only tell you what he told me, Rick. Not what was in his mind."  
  
"Of course... Betty, I wonder about the woman! Did _she_ know what it was, I wonder? Or had it simply been handed down in her family for generations, its purpose forgotten?"  
  
She shot a glance at him, and gave a shaky laugh. "I know you. You're already thinking of using her story in a novel!"  
  
He felt a rush of blood to his cheeks. "I'm sorry." Still, he forged on. "If she was concerned about an actual werewolf, I assume it didn't kill her. Couldn't have, if she was wearing this. Did your father tell you how she died?"  
  
"Y-yes. She drowned. And my father..." She bit her lip.  
  
"What? What were you going to say?"  
  
"Only that...he sometimes wondered if he was the only one who mourned her. He was young at the time, but he never forgot."  
  
She had released her hold on the medallion, and Quentin fingered it again. Reverently, this time. "Betty," he whispered, "do you realize they saved your life last night? Your life and my sanity, at the very least.  
  
"Your father, a man I never knew. And a woman neither of us knew, a woman we can't even name..."  
  
"Only a writer. Only a writer would give it a romantic gloss like that!" She was laughing at him again.  
  
But her eyes were brimming with tears.  
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.  
Twenty minutes later Quentin was digging into a stack of pancakes, eating with the same gusto with which he found himself doing everything now. "Great to have teeth," he said around a mouthful of food. "Not that I really need them for pancakes, but you know what I mean."  
  
"Yes, I know." Betty hadn't touched her own meal, beyond moving it around the plate with her fork. She was smiling indulgently at him, but the smile failed to reach her eyes.  
  
He stuffed another forkful into his mouth. "I am--" He had to give up on it, wait till he'd swallowed. "I am going to tell you about myself. But I was just so hungry!"  
  
"I understand, really I do." She reached across the table to pat his arm. "You haven't eaten properly in a week. Relax, enjoy your breakfast. You can tell me over coffee."  
  
The morning _Globe_ lay on a corner of the table, where she had dropped it after skimming the front page.  
  
As Quentin returned to his pancakes, she nudged it out of sight behind the toaster.  
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They took their coffee into the living room. He still hadn't been able to bring himself to look into the study.  
  
He surveyed the living room and announced, "This year I want a Christmas tree! Right there, in the bay window."  
  
Betty frowned up at him. "You never wanted a tree before."  
  
"I know. I don't understand what's come over me." He closed his eyes, reveling in the imagined scent of new-cut pine warring with the aroma of mincemeat that would drift in from the kitchen. Christmas goose, plum pudding. All the things he hadn't bothered with for a half-century or more. "I feel...more _alive_ than I have in a long, long time. I want to sense everything, experience everything! This may be the way I felt when I really was as young as I look. It's been so long, I'm not sure."  
  
"Well, that answers one of my questions." She rolled her eyes. "Whether you're actually closer to thirty or ninety."  
  
"I'm ninety." He sank onto the sofa, pulling her down beside him. "And I swear, the only reason I never told you this before is that you wouldn't have believed it."  
.  
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He told her everything. Or rather, almost everything. He didn't omit the parts that reflected worst on him, chief among them his half-accidental, half-deliberate strangulation of Jenny. His betrayed wife had been insane, trying to kill _him_--but in light of the difference in their strength, that was no excuse.  
  
It certainly hadn't impressed Jenny's sister, the gypsy Magda, who'd saddled him with the werewolf curse.   
  
But in explaining his own past, he was careful to safeguard secrets entrusted to him by others. The time-traveling vampire cousin who might--or might not--lie sleeping in a chained coffin in the Collins family mausoleum. The grandson who had borne the werewolf curse for six years, and now roamed Europe in the ageless body of Garth Blackwood.  
  
It was to protect Gavin, he told himself, that he omitted all mention of Count Petofi. If he discussed the old sorcerer, he'd have to assure Betty they were in no danger from him, wouldn't he? And he could hardly convince her he knew Petofi was dead without telling her how he had died, exposing Gavin's secret. He knew Betty could be trusted, but he had promised Gavin _absolute_ confidentiality.  
  
Strange, how easily the story flowed without his including Petofi. Tate had painted his charmed portrait, Tate had stolen it after Quentin took Amanda away from him, Tate had--as he thought--enjoyed his final revenge in New York last week. It was all Tate. He merely let Betty assume Tate had painted the portrait of his own volition, for money. No lies in this tale, only omissions.  
  
To protect Gavin. Solely to protect Gavin.  
  
Petofi was dead, dead, dead. And yet...why did he have this fear, deep in his gut, that mention of the sorcerer's name might rouse forces best allowed to sleep undisturbed?  
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Betty had listened with rapt attention, asking only occasional questions. Her face was like a thundercloud when he haltingly described the tortures Tate had inflicted on him in New York.  
  
Now he brought his story to a close, and shifted uneasily on the sofa. "I've been...sort of taking for granted that you and I would still be together. But maybe, now that you know the truth..."  
  
"Rick." She squeezed his hand. "It's okay. I'm still here.  
  
"This past week, I realized for the first time how much I...care for you. I didn't mean for this to happen, but it did. So I'm here for the long haul."  
  
He was still uncomfortable. "You're not upset that I was willing to _dump_ you, as Tate so elegantly put it, for Amanda?"  
  
"No." Did he imagine tears welling in her eyes? She blinked furiously. "They say everyone has...one great love in their lifetime. I can understand that. And I'm proud that you were willing to make the sacrifice you did for her."  
  
She cleared her throat. "One thing you haven't explained--I don't know if you can. Do you have any idea why you transformed into a young man this morning?"  
  
Relaxing, he pondered the question. "I haven't had much time to think about it. But yes, I can offer a theory.  
  
"It may be that the werewolf brain, such as it is, controls the transformation back into human form. And that brain must have been totally confused. If I had aged in a normal way, transforming into a werewolf every month, it could have adjusted to the gradual changes in my human form. But I was only a werewolf for four months back in 1897, when I was twenty-seven years old! Then, from the wolf's point of view, nothing for over sixty-three years. And now, suddenly, I was a dying old man.  
  
"I think the wolf brain was unable to cope with that. So it transformed back into the form to which it had become accustomed over that four-month period in 1897."  
  
He heaved a sigh of relief. "And I'm certainly glad it did!"  
  
Betty was nodding thoughtfully. "Rick, that could explain why you're bursting with energy today. You've always seemed like a young man to me. But perhaps, now, you really are twenty-seven years old, in a way you weren't when you were dependent on the portrait."  
  
"I think you're right." His sudden, barking laugh made her jump. "Tate may actually have done me a _favor!_" He got up and headed for the kitchen. "More coffee?"  
  
"No," she said weakly. "And, Rick, I wouldn't have put it quite that way..."  
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It was mid-afternoon before she succeeded in breaking through his exuberance. "Rick, aren't you concerned that the moon may be full again tonight?"  
  
He froze. "Oh, hell. It's so wonderful just to feel well again that I haven't thought of it all day.  
  
"I can't believe I'll transform tonight." He looked at her pleadingly, as if she could somehow control it. "A day as perfect as this one couldn't end like that!"  
  
"I hope you're right," she said heavily. "There's...something else you haven't thought of, Rick. I hesitated to bring it up, but...once you were sure I was all right, you never asked what you actually did last night."  
  
"What I...did?" Not comprehending. Refusing to comprehend.  
  
She retrieved the _Globe_ from behind the toaster. "It's all over Page One." Forced herself to look up, directly into his anxious blue eyes. "Two people were mauled to death by a 'wild animal.' A woman...and a five-year-old girl."  
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"I never killed a child before." Quentin swished the remains of a drink, gazing moodily into its depths. "I killed two women as a werewolf in 1897, but I never killed a child."  
  
_Unless you count my ghost's killing David Collins in 1969, in a history Barnabas supposedly changed. Who knows. By the time 1969 rolls around, maybe I will be a ghost. Killing children._  
  
He drained his glass, and reached automatically for the decanter.  
  
"You've had enough, Rick." Betty moved it away from him.  
  
"S'pose you're right."  
  
"And, Rick"--she leaned across the table and lifted his chin, making him look at her--"_this isn't your fault_. You bore some responsibility for what happened in 1897. But this is Tate's doing."  
  
He settled back in his chair. "Is it?" he mused. "I believed I was doing the noble thing when I risked myself to save Amanda. But I never thought of the people I might kill or maim if I became a werewolf.  
  
"I've killed two people already. Even if I _had_ saved Amanda from a 'fate worse than death,' would that be a morally acceptable trade?"  
  
"If you intended it as a trade, no," she said reasonably. "But you didn't. You were thrust without warning into a desperate situation, given no time to think. What you did was heroic! You could easily have died without ever becoming a werewolf again."  
  
"I suppose I could die _now_." Then he shook his head vehemently. "No, no! I've heard frightening legends about what happens to werewolves who commit suicide.  
  
"But aside from that...after the past week, the shock of getting my life back, I can't give it up. God help me, I can't!" His shoulders heaved as he began to sob.  
  
"And there's no reason you should." She came around the table to comfort him, and hugged him fiercely. "I can't lose you. I won't! I tell you, Rick, you're an innocent victim."  
  
"M-maybe you're right." He tried to pull himself together. "Tate hasn't heard the last of this!" Anger flared, then collapsed under the weight of his depression. What was the use of railing against Tate? The man was invulnerable.  
  
_Concentrate on the immediate problem._ "When you saw I wasn't thinking clearly, you should have reminded me sooner. About the danger tonight."  
  
"I didn't have the heart. But what difference would it have made? We can't do anything about it." Her face was a study in frustration. "If you become what you became last night, I don't think there's any lock that would hold you."  
  
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had almost mentioned a doctor of his acquaintance...a doctor who had kept one werewolf safely under lock and key during full moons, and would willingly have done the same for another.  
  
But could he, in all conscience, appeal to Julian Hoffman? His son's friend was approaching eighty, and had a wife who would have to be kept in the dark.  
  
Could he, for that matter, risk going to Collinsport?  
  
No.  
  
He sighed. "I could have gotten out of town, maybe to a forest where the wolf would attack only animals. But I'd have to drive a long way from Boston to find a place like that.  
  
"Anyway, I'm here now. I may as well be doing something." He pushed his chair back.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Burning those clothes. The ones I"--watching her closely--"stole this morning."  
  
As he thought, it hadn't occurred to her that the clothes were stolen. He saw her eyes widen slightly as she grappled with that, then accepted it. "Why do you have to burn them?"  
  
"Maybe I'm being over-cautious," he conceded. "But I chucked that nightshirt in the clothing store I broke into. And I realize now it had the werewolf victims' blood on it. Even if someone connects the incidents, they can't search every closet in the Greater Boston area for those missing clothes--but I'd still prefer to be on the safe side."  
  
She nodded emphatically. "What about fingerprints, Rick? You must have left some in the store. Are your prints on file anywhere?"  
  
"N-no." He wracked his brain, then shook his head and said confidently, "No. Interpol had them a few years ago, associated with a different alias. But I broke into their files and got rid of everything they had on me."  
  
"I won't ask why Interpol was after you." A thin smile. "While you're burning the clothes, I can call some acquaintances, mention that your grandfather died last night. I suppose I should say his body has been taken back to New York State for burial--Monday?"  
  
Quentin nodded, feeling more like himself as they dealt with manageable problems. "That sounds about right. Then we can go somewhere Monday, be seen driving off and coming back hours later. The neighbors may not be paying any heed, but we should cover all bases.  
  
"And as soon as possible, I'll have to replace the study window the werewolf"--he couldn't bring himself to say "I"--"broke last night. If anyone notices, I'll say the wind broke it."  
  
"The wind?" Betty frowned. "Rick, it hasn't been that windy."  
  
"Then..." He turned the problem over in his mind, and came up with a solution. "It didn't fit well. Rattled so much, in even light wind, that the glass was finally weakened enough to break. It must have broken _out_ rather than in, but there's still enough ratty grass out there that no one will have seen the shards. And the neighbors don't know poor old Grandpa was in that room, so the coincidence of its breaking the night he died won't seem unbelievable.  
  
"Thank God the shutters weren't closed. We never could have explained their being broken too!"  
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By the time he had burned the clothes in the living room fireplace, and Betty had made her phone calls, darkness was descending.  
  
Betty strolled outside. Noted that the Dennison house, on one side, was completely dark, while the O'Briens, on the other, were apparently in their living room.  
  
She went back in and said tersely, "Kitchen."  
  
So they sat in the kitchen, back door open despite the chill, Betty's pentagram outside her sweater.  
  
And waited.  
  
After an hour, Quentin allowed himself to relax. "It's okay. It would have happened by now." He was shaking visibly.  
  
Betty stood up, ashen-faced. Stumbled, and had to grab a chair for support. But she pulled herself erect, took a deep breath.  
  
And said, "Let's get dinner."  
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They fell into bed early, exhausted from the strain they'd been under. Lay side by side, too tired for lovemaking.  
  
"I'll have time to prepare for next month," Quentin assured her. "I'll drive around well in advance, find a wild area where I can hole up for as many days as necessary." He traveled frequently, researching legends he could adapt for his novels. No one would become suspicious.  
  
"Let me go with you," she suggested. "At least next time. The moon will be full New Year's night. Our going away together over the holiday would be more believable than your going alone."  
  
"All right." He rolled on his side and kissed her bare shoulder. "Thank you, Betty. For everything..." His voice trailed off.  
  
She lay awake for another hour, listening to his regular breathing.  
  
And wondering why, in telling her the life story she in fact knew almost as well as he did, he had never mentioned Count Petofi.  
****


	6. Chapter 6

  
They drove to New York on Monday, and spent hours cruising the city as Quentin searched for Tate's studio.  
  
"It's no use," he said at last. "It was dark that night, snowing. I probably wouldn't know the building again if I did see it."  
  
"There's nothing you could do to him anyway, is there?" Betty scowled as she tried to maneuver out of a dead-end street. "It's maddening, but..."  
  
"You're right, of course." He balled his fist, thinking of Tate. "I can't harm him while his portrait is intact. And he's too bright to keep it with him, or in any obvious place.  
  
"Even if I _had_ his portrait, I'm not sure I could bring myself to destroy it. As long as he retains his powers, damn him, he represents my only hope. What he did for me once, he could conceivably do again.  
  
"I have no reason to believe he can ever be persuaded--or forced--to help me. But I could only have revenge by throwing away the possibility, turning him into a ninety-year-old man who might never again be able to paint anything. Could I do that? I'm not sure."  
  
"You certainly couldn't pressure him by threatening to destroy it," Betty said glumly. "He'd know you were bluffing."  
  
"Right." He sighed and glanced at his watch. "We may as well give up on this, head for home. I'm beginning to think that warehouse wasn't even his real studio. Can't imagine him not wanting better light. I think it was more like a stage set, prepared for my benefit. He may have abandoned it the next day.  
  
"Let me drive now! You've been doing it long enough, while I gaped at alleys."  
  
But after they changed places behind the wheel he sat for a moment, gazing wistfully at the dilapidated warehouses that hemmed them in.  
  
"I really wanted to let Tate _see_ me. Let him know, at least, that I didn't die, that I'm young and vigorous again. But...I guess he'll just have to be surprised when Frederic Thorn novels keep right on coming!"  
  
He stepped on the gas.  
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.  
The study window had been replaced, "Grandpa" officially laid to rest, and the question of whether he could find Tate's studio answered, however unsatisfactorily. So that evening, Quentin resumed work on the novel he'd abandoned when he received the fateful note from "Amanda." After staring at a blank page for more than an hour, he found his stride, and was typing at a steady clip when Betty looked in on him.  
  
She smiled affectionately. "It's past eleven, sweetheart. Think I'll go on to bed. But if I'm asleep when you come in, wake me."  
  
He looked up from the typewriter. "If I take you up on that at 3:00 a.m., remember you asked for it!"  
  
Laughing, she planted a kiss on his head and was gone.  
  
He worked for another hour, concluding the chapter with a flourish. His vampire antihero had just walked through a door in Glastonbury, Connecticut and emerged in Glastonbury, England--in broad daylight, distressingly far from his native soil.  
  
Deciding to leave it at that, he turned out the light and went upstairs. Betty was reading one of his books. She dropped it eagerly, smiling up at him.  
  
He chuckled. "Hold your horses, girl! I'm going to take a shower." Kicking his shoes off, he began casually stripping as he headed for the bathroom.  
  
He returned ten minutes later, still toweling himself dry. Betty had turned a brighter light on. She was sitting up in bed, no longer smiling.  
  
"Rick--drop the towel."  
  
He blinked, then agreeably dropped it. "What's the matter, love? Can't wait another second to admire my body?"  
  
"Right." She laughed, but it was an uneasy laugh.  
  
Her probing gaze made him uncomfortable. "Hey, what's the matter? Is something wrong?" He looked down at his torso, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
"No, no, nothing. Trick of the light..." She switched the lamp off. "I mean, I'm just impatient. Come to bed!"  
  
He didn't have to be asked again. As hour later, cradled in her arms, he sank into a contented sleep.  
  
He was awakened by Betty's scream.  
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Instinct took over, and he leapt out of bed even before his eyes were fully open. Came up in fighting stance, prepared to do battle with--  
  
"Wh-what?" He looked around. Saw no one, nothing out of the way.  
  
Betty was still sitting in the middle of the bed. Hands clasped tightly over her mouth, eyes wide with terror.  
  
She was looking directly at him.  
  
"Wh-what's the matter?" He heard the note of panic in his voice.  
  
She brought her hands down with an effort. Her face was so white that the marks left by her fingers were barely visible.  
  
"I...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have screamed." She took a deep breath, tried to compose herself. "Rick...s-something is...happening to you."  
  
"Don't be silly!" he snapped. "Nothing is happening to me. We both know I'm not exactly normal--I'm a werewolf--but that won't affect me in any way until the next full moon."  
  
He believed what he was saying. So why were his palms sweating?  
  
Betty moaned.  
  
Exasperated, he strode over to the dresser. It was broad daylight, he could see himself clearly in the mirror...  
  
His hair was liberally streaked with gray.  
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He gave a strangled gasp. His legs buckled...but Betty was there to catch him, and they fell to their knees together, rocking in a desperate embrace.  
  
They wept together, grieved together, for what might have been ten minutes--or an hour--before he forced himself to get up.  
  
And take another look.  
  
"At least it isn't happening all at once, the way it did in New York." He studied his reflection. The graying hair, the new but not unattractive maturity in the face. "I look, maybe, late thirties rather than late twenties. Hair as dark as mine often goes gray early. Though my sister's didn't..." His voice had a hollow ring. It all seemed unreal, as if he were talking about someone else.  
  
Betty put her arm around him and led him back to the bed, where they sat down shakily.  
  
"I know now that I really did see something last night." She wiped her eyes, calmer now. "I thought I saw a difference in your body. A thickening in the midsection, flabbiness in the muscles. Not a big difference, just what you said, a matter of about a ten-year age difference. But I convinced myself it was my imagination."  
  
After a long silence, he forced himself to say what they were both thinking. "If it were only this, it would be okay. Ten years--nothing. A little hair-dye, and no one would even notice.  
  
"But...now that it's begun, I have to believe it's going to continue."  
  
She didn't offer any argument.  
  
Finally, she broke another miserable silence. "At least that scar on your face hasn't reappeared."  
  
"That's right." He nodded thoughtfully. "So it is different from what happened when the portrait was destroyed. Then I _turned into_ the man in the portrait, absorbed everything that had happened--or should have happened--to him over the years. Old injuries, as well as medical conditions like arthritis to which I was genetically predisposed.  
  
"This is simply a normal aging process, accelerated. So I'll develop the arthritis, anything like that. But not the aftereffects of cuts that were never stitched, broken bones that were never set. Or infectious diseases that other Quentin may have contracted without knowing it."  
  
He didn't say the word that was in his mind.  
  
_Syphilis._  
  
Was it in her mind, too?  
  
He forged ahead. "And after I transform into the werewolf, there's a good chance I'll change back into a twenty-seven-year-old, like I did last week.  
  
"And the cycle will begin all over again..."  
  
_If I live long enough to transform into the werewolf. How rapidly am I going to age? What if I reach ninety by the end of this week? Even without the effects of a beating and the ravages of syphilis, can I survive as a ninety-year-old for three weeks?  
  
The moon will be full the night of January first, 1961. Will I live to see 1961?  
  
Do I even want to, if it means that this descent into hell will be repeated over and over, month after month, until I die because Betty is too old and frail to spoon-feed me?  
  
_He kept those thoughts to himself.  
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They lived that month in constant tension. Shut up in the house, seeing no one, thinking of nothing but the doom that hung over him. The hospital bed they had meant to return was moved back into the study, to be ready in case of necessity.   
  
Betty made contingency plans for explaining a second frail old man as _her_ grandfather. She mumbled something about "irony."   
  
Quentin locked his manuscript in a drawer, never mentioned it again. Work was out of the question. One day he might pace the floor like a caged animal; the next, huddle motionless in bed. Similarly, he alternated between periods of frenzied rushing from mirror to mirror, and times when he impulsively demanded they all be turned to the wall.  
  
He drank heavily for the first few days. Then Betty forcefully reminded him that he was damaging his liver, and would feel the effects of that damage sooner rather than later. After that he stopped drinking, but his moods grew blacker. Ever more of his energy was spent in futile rage against Tate.  
  
One night, when he lay exhausted in Betty's arms, she brought herself to ask a painful question. "This is turning out to be _worse_ than New York, isn't it?"  
  
"Y-yes," he said reluctantly. "I wouldn't have thought anything could be worse. But at least, there, the aging was over and done, quickly. Even allowing for the things Tate and Jared did to me later, the whole business was over in an hour or so, and my body was as ruined as it ever would be.  
  
"This torment drags on and on. I can't rest. I'm afraid to sleep, never knowing how much stiffer and more crippled I'll be when I wake up. _If_ I wake up. This stress...isn't doing me any good." He decided against telling her he was sure he had already suffered one heart attack.  
  
She smoothed his hair--still thick, but gone totally gray. I know this is small consolation, but I think I've identified a pattern in the rate of your aging. It seems to be, roughly, ten years in every three-day period. Sometimes over one night, sometimes more gradually, but that _rate_ is constant. So you won't be ninety, or close to it, for another week. About December twentieth."   
  
He said nothing, and she knew he was thinking of the number of days he would have to survive, after that, to be "saved" by the full moon.  
  
"And so," she continued quickly, "in future months, you should be able to appear publicly as Frederic Thorn for a good week. Touching up your hair toward the end, and staying out of strong light. For a second week, you'll be too obviously aging to pass as Thorn, but you'll still be fairly healthy, functional.  
  
"That's two weeks out of every month to work on your novels, travel, enjoy life! You won't become an invalid, really, till the third week."  
  
He was quiet so long she thought he had fallen asleep.  
  
Then he said, "That's four weeks out of every month to plan what I'm going to do to Charles Delaware Tate."  
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**********  
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"Where is he?" Betty had barely had time to close the front door behind her, and Quentin was already struggling to a sitting position on the sofa. "Did you learn anything?"  
  
"Just a second, darling." She kicked her boots off, shed coat and muffler.  
  
At least he seemed to be all right. He'd apparently kept his promise, and stayed exactly where she'd left him. She hated leaving him alone, now that he was becoming so feeble. The whole time she was out she'd been afraid he'd try to put another log on the fire, and fall into the fireplace.  
  
"Here I am!" She kissed him, then settled on the floor at his feet. Took a moment to tuck the afghan around his legs.  
  
"What did you find out about Tate?" he asked querulously.  
  
She braced herself for his probable reaction to her news. She had, in truth, established the central fact through telephone inquiries. Had hoped to be able to add something else, more encouraging, before she broke it to him. That was why she'd gone to Boston U. to track down the elusive Professor Sterling, who knew the art world inside out. And visited her old friend Faith Devereaux--now a police lieutenant--to call in some favors. Faith had frequently turned to Rick for help with cases involving Boston's occult underground.  
  
But they had added woefully little to what she already knew.  
  
She took a deep breath. "Rick...Charles Delaware Tate has been officially dead for a year and a half."  
  
Shock only silenced him for a moment. Then he launched the flood of protests she had expected. "I did see Tate! I don't imagine things! I saw Charles Delaware Tate--and he wasn't a ghost, either. I know who I saw... You believe me, don't you, Betty? Tell me you believe me!" Bony hands clutched at her, watery eyes searched her face.  
  
"Yes, yes, darling, I believe you." She eased him back against the cushions. "I never doubted you. That's why I said he was _officially_ dead.  
  
"Listen to me, Rick. Tate faked his death in 1959, do you understand? It makes sense when you think about it. His age was a matter of public record--he couldn't go on painting forever."  
  
"Y-yes. I see." Calmer now, probably thinking clearly.  
  
She watched him closely for a moment, then continued. "It all adds up. Tate had supposedly been a recluse for many years--still painting, but only landscapes. Get it? He could hardly paint portraits, his old specialty, without letting his subjects see him. And realize he looked one-third his age."  
  
"Yes." Quentin nodded slowly. "But...I'm sure he _was_ still painting portraits, _charmed_ portraits to preserve wealthy clients' youth. That's where the real money was. If he wasn't doing that, it wouldn't have been worth his while to keep the Tate identity alive as long as he did."  
  
She breathed a sigh of relief that he was making sense. Basically, his mind was still sound. It was illness and frustration that too frequently brought him to the edge of hysteria. "I'm sure you're right. His serious clients were being steered to him, somehow. And for them, his own appearance was his best advertisement.  
  
"His contact with the world, for years, was through a so-called nephew named Jeffrey. And Jeffrey inherited everything on his death."  
  
Quentin sat bolt upright again. "Jeffrey was Tate himself!"  
  
"Yes, I'm sure he was." She took his hands, praying he wouldn't become agitated. "But as soon as he had the inheritance free and clear, he changed his name. Vanished without a trace."  
  
He wept, and cursed. But quietly. Let her put his legs up on the sofa.  
  
She stayed with him until he dozed off, then tiptoed out to hang up her coat and muffler.  
  
He hadn't had a plan for dealing with Tate, anyway.  
  
But she had.  
  
If she had located Tate, she would have begged him to paint another charmed portrait of Rick, after the werewolf-change restored his youth.  
  
If he lived that long.  
  
She had been prepared to offer Tate all her wealth.  
  
And, if necessary, to offer herself.  
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**********  
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Quentin determinedly slept on the sofa for the first few nights after he found himself unable to climb the stairs. Betty slept--or rather, didn't sleep--in a living room chair.  
  
On December twentieth, he bowed to the inevitable and let her move him into the hospital bed in the study. Watched her bring in a sleeping bag for herself.  
  
She raised the head of the bed to a height she hoped would ease his breathing. "There. Are you comfortable?"  
  
"Yes." A lie, but what difference did it make? "Betty...I had such great plans, didn't I? I was going to spend half the month searching for a safe place to transform into a werewolf, so I wouldn't endanger humans.  
  
"And here I am, back in the study. I'll break the same window all over again."  
  
_Maybe. Or maybe, the next time I feel that crushing weight on my chest, it won't let up._  
  
"Don't worry about the window, sweetheart."  
  
She straightened his pillow. "And don't talk so much. Just take it easy. I'll get you up in a wheelchair once or twice a day.  
  
"There's no reason to think the rapid aging will continue, now you've reached your true age. And you'll only have to hang on a few days longer than you did last month, when you were in worse condition."  
  
She couldn't meet his eyes.  
  
_But last month_, he thought, _I had medical help._  
  
This month, nurses, IVs, and medication for his numerous ailments were out of the question. To have any chance of doing this month after month without being caught, they'd have to do it alone.  
  
If they couldn't do that--if he couldn't survive--they might as well find out now.  
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The dreary days ran together. He supposed that in some ways, his bedridden state made life easier for Betty. She could at least go out for groceries now without worrying that he might fall and injure himself while she was gone.  
  
Of course, he might suffer a fatal heart attack. But if that happened, her presence would make no difference.  
  
Worn down by pain, he found himself sleeping more and more. Betty roused him at mealtimes--when his dogged attempts to feed himself invariably resulted in spilled food, more work for her.  
  
Soon he was resisting those transfers to the wheelchair. But she always prevailed. "I'm sorry, Rick. I know it's exhausting. But I'm trying to keep you alive. Lying in bed all day could cause blood clots, or pneumonia."  
  
This time he was almost too weak to argue. But not quite. "Betty, it's after dark!"  
  
"I know, darling," she said soothingly. "I'm sorry. But you were sleeping so soundly before...and besides, it's not really late. It gets dark early this time of year."  
  
He sank into the wheelchair, moaned, and closed his eyes again.  
  
But she wasn't prepared to let him rest. "I'm going to take you out into the living room, Rick. Okay? I want to change the bed while you're out of it, and there isn't much room to work in here."  
  
"All right." _I don't care where you take me. Just stop talking and let me sleep.  
  
_Barely awake, he felt the chair stop rolling. Felt, too, the warmth emanating from the fireplace. That felt good, almost good enough to compensate for the discomfort of sitting up. If he had to be out of bed, he was glad she was leaving him here.  
  
"Rick? Open your eyes. Please!"  
  
He moaned again. Struggled briefly to comply, then began drifting off.  
  
"Come on, Rick." Stroking his face. "Wake up."  
  
Why the hell wouldn't she let him sleep? He was so weary...  
  
But he managed to get his eyes open.  
  
And saw the lights.  
  
Blinking, multi-colored lights, transformed by his weak vision into glimmering globes three times their actual size.  
  
Lights that rose in a towering triangle, filling the bay window...  
  
_A Christmas tree._  
  
"Oh, my God," he whispered. "You remembered..."  
  
"Do you like it, darling?" A child's voice, pathetically eager. "I tried so hard. I could only guess at what you would have done, but I made it sort of Victorian. You'll be able to see the decorations better by daylight."  
  
"It's..._magical_." His eyes filled with tears, and the lights blossomed into stars. "It's...just like the trees I remember from my childhood, before my parents died. Oh, Betty...my love..."  
  
She gave a small, broken cry. Dropped to her knees, burying her head in his lap. And he stroked her hair with palsied hands as they wept, silently, for the beauty of what they had...and the loss of everything else they had dreamed this Christmas would be.  
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"Tonight is Christmas Eve." She was still curled on the floor with her head in his lap, but turned to face the tree now, as he was. "I wanted you to see it for the first time with the lights on."  
  
"I'm glad you did." He fought to keep the tremor out of his voice. "All my life, I've thought of Christmas as symbolizing the coming victory of light over darkness. Humanity's faith that light will _always_ triumph over darkness."  
  
"That's been my view too," she said softly. "The view I learned from my...family."  
  
He stayed in the wheelchair, her warm body nestled against his legs, to await the dawn.  
  
But as the sun rose on Christmas Day, a chill came over him. What peace could Christmas offer a man whose only hope for "salvation" lay in _a night of killing?_  
  
When Betty half-lifted him back into his bed, he knew he would not leave it again.  
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He slipped into a coma three days after Christmas.  
  
Betty knew no sleep after that.  
  
She tended him constantly. Turning him, bathing him, rubbing his hands and feet, moistening the inside and outside of his parched mouth. Tried desperately to give him liquids, and was rewarded when he swallowed a little juice and kept it down.  
  
And she talked to him. Babbled for hours on end, about everything from Kennedy's Cabinet selections to the encouraging sales of his own recent novels. Several times a day she experimented with calling him "Quentin"--hoping, to no avail, that the sound of his real name would rouse him.  
  
Once she even resorted to pleading, "Wake up, Quentin! _It's me, Amanda!_"  
  
And hated herself.  
  
_I don't even know what her voice sounded like. But after all these years, he probably isn't sure either._  
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On New Year's Day he was tossing fitfully, burning with fever. His labored, wheezing breath told her he had developed the dreaded pneumonia.  
  
"Can you hear me, darling? Try to lie still." But he continued rolling from side to side, displacing the cool, damp cloth she had just laid across his forehead. "Please, Rick..._Quentin_. Lie still and save your strength. I know you're hot. But you must rest. You only have to hang on for a few hours now, just a few hours!"  
  
His eyes fluttered open. But she saw no spark of understanding, no sign that he either saw or heard her.  
  
An hour later he stopped breathing.  
  
She threw herself on the bed, put her mouth to his, and began forcing her own breath into and out of him.  
  
After what seemed an eternity she sensed a stirring of life, a feeble attempt to breathe on his own. She kept up her efforts until he had matched his rhythm, weakly, to hers. When she pulled back, his respiration was shallow, rasping...but probably adequate.  
  
For now.  
  
She sagged to the floor and let the tears come...briefly. Two minutes later she was bathing him.  
  
As the day dragged on, his temperature soared again. But this time he lay _too_ still. Frighteningly still.  
  
She restarted his breathing a total of four times.  
  
As shadows began to fall she sat numbly on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the window. _He won't make it. He can't possibly make it. I tried, I tried!_  
  
She reached inside her collar and drew out the pentagram. Pressed it to her lips.  
  
Then she looked down at the ravaged form of Quentin Collins.  
  
_Oh Father, Father...thank God you aren't alive to see this.  
  
It would break your heart._  
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The moon's disk filled the window. Tendrils of unholy light searched the room.  
  
Betty took a deep breath, and pulled her gaze away. She tightened her grip on the man who lay across her lap. Cold and clammy now. But he still had a pulse and respiration, barely detectable though they were.  
  
_I should be talking to you, my darling. Urging you to keep fighting. But I know you can't hear me.  
  
And I don't have the strength to speak another word._  
  
The questing rays found his head, silvered the ancient face.  
  
The limp body went suddenly rigid.  
  
Then it began to convulse.  
  
He never regained consciousness this time, never cried out. _A puppet_, she thought insanely as she clung to him. _A lifeless puppet being shaken and thrown about by an invisible puppet-master. Why, for God's sake, why? He's past suffering. Whoever, whatever you are, why can't you leave him alone?  
  
_But the shaking continued. She heard bones crack...yet his face seemed chiseled in marble, showing no response. _He's dead. He's dead, damn you, he's already dead!  
  
Why can't I scream? Why can't I make a sound? Is some new rule in effect, that all this blasphemous abuse of a corpse has to go on in a universe where sound no longer exists?  
  
Am I dead, too?_  
  
The shaking stopped, and the broken puppet fell heavily across her knees.  
  
Incredibly, he sucked in a breath.  
  
"R-Rick?" She _could_ make a sound.  
  
He took another breath, and another. Faint, reedy breaths, but he was alive.  
  
_Is this all? But he hasn't..._  
  
And then she remembered. Last month. It stopped, and began all over again...  
  
As it did now, before the thought was fully formed in her mind. The first spasm jerked him out of her arms. But she clutched him again, and held him through bouts of ever more violent shaking.  
  
_He's alive!_ her mind screamed at the invisible puppeteer. _He's alive, just barely...be careful with him!_  
  
But the entity--if entity it was--hurled them out of bed and onto the floor. Sent them hurtling into walls, furniture. A bookcase toppled over, and the books came tumbling down on them.  
  
At that point someone let out a single, thin scream.  
  
She would never be sure who it was.  
  
Abruptly, the tumult came to an end.  
  
The moon had moved beyond the window.  
  
And on the floor, amid the jumble of books, lay Quentin Collins.  
  
Still a man. Very old. Very dead.  
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She tried to revive him again. Gave up, and collapsed in a sobbing heap.  
  
_It can't be, it can't... I failed him somehow. What didn't I do? Can't think...too tired to think. Father, I'm sorry! I tried. I loved him, I loved him!_ Her hand groped for the pentagram, the sense it gave of a link with her father. Clung to it as to life itself...  
  
Then she heard a low growl.  
  
She jerked her head up. And found herself looking into the glowing eyes of an oversized, luminous black wolf.  
  
Her hand fell from the pentagram, and a smile spread slowly across her face.  
  
She had no fear of this wolf.  
  
She had seen it before.  
  
Last month.  
  
She reached out to stroke its shimmering fur. "You're alive! You made it after all!" Smiling foolishly, even as tears ran down her cheeks. "Go with God, my love...and come safely home to me!"  
  
The animal turned and plunged through the window.  
  
The exhausted woman fell in a faint.  
  
But throughout the night, the pentagram sparkled on her breast.  
  
The pentagram Jamison Collins had retrieved, long ago, from the watery grave of Beth Chavez.  
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**_. _**  
(The End?)  



End file.
